When I recite words trite like “it itches, burns, he cheated, I’m sad,”
the lonely frustration isn’t on accurate display.
I’m perceived as a self-pitying undergrad,
I need to tell the doctor excruciating everyday symptoms in an uncliched way.
Universal struggles so populated; experienced so companionlessly,
those outside the city limits of our pain reluctantly listen,
but when I slam my poetry, it’ll be taken less lightly,
they’ll sit up in their chair, their expression will stiffen.